FrUkUsThe Notebook Crossover
by DemonicGoddess18
Summary: A Hetalia take on the popular novel, The Notebook. Alfred is suffering from a disease that is slowly killing him and Arthur has a case of re-occurring amnesia, similar to Alzheimer's. Alfred reads to him their life story to bring him back once in a while. Rated T for smut later on
1. Before Hand Notes

_**The Notebook**_

Fr-Uk-Us; A Hetalia Crossover

K.M.S.

* * *

AURTHOR'S NOTE

*Copyright note: I do not own any characters or the original plot line of this story; I only own the content/idea of this crossover

**Hetalia: Axis Powers' characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya

**Original storyline of, "The Notebook" belongs to Nicholas Sparks

**This is not meant to offend the countries, or the people that live there. This is only a pie of literary fiction based on the characters ©Hidekaz

**This is told from different viewpoints; Alfred F. Jones [[America]], Arthur Kirkland [[England/ UK/Great Britain]], and Francis Bonnefoy [[France]]

***Character Names:

-Alfred Jones [America] as Noah Calhoun

-Arthur Kirkland [England] as Allison Hamilton

-Francis Bonnefoy [France] as Lon Hammond Jr.

-Additional cast as story goes

***Contains FrUkUs, GerIta, etc.; don't like the pairings or yaoi, don't read

***REVIEWS APPRECIATED


	2. Chapter 1 Miracles

Chapter 1- Miracles [Alfred's P.O.V.]

Who am I? And how, I wonder, will this story end?

Even in the menial warmth of the late May rays of sun, and the layers of clothing draped over my body, I was still chilled. I sit in the corner of the hospital room; a bright crimson scarf wound tightly around my pale neck, and tucked into a contrasting raven V-neck sweater covering my torso. I shiver as heat circulates through my body, and a cold wave replaces what little feverish feeling I'm left with. Every day I'm losing the strength I have, generally these days I just sit here, listening to the monitor's steady beep, and the cries of other patients. Of course, occasionally I walk around if I'm capable. A light smile traces my features. Today, today is the day.

My life? It's nothing special, nor is it a simple life style. It wasn't anything spectacular, but I wasn't living in a hole in the ground. I suppose it was like a roller coaster, fairly stable with more ups than downs, and slow steady climbs. Not everyone can say this about his or her life though, I'm nothing special, and this I'm sure. I'm just a common man with common thoughts, and I've lead a relatively common lifestyle. There were never any dedications or plaques for my name to go down in history and my name will soon be forgotten. But, I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and for me, that has always been enough.

Some romantics would call this a love story: the cynics, a tragedy. In my eyes, it's a bit of both, and no matter how you are able to perceive; it does not distort, or change the fact that it involves a great deal of my life. I have no regrets, nor complaints about the way I've lived; the path I've chosen to follow and the places it had taken me- the path has always been the right one. I wouldn't have had it any differently.

Time, unfortunately doesn't make your choices easy, or help you stay on track. The path is, and always will be as straight as ever, but now is strewn with rocks and gravel that accumulate over a lifetime. Up until three years ago it would have been easier to ignore, but it's impossible now. There is a sickness rolling within my body; I'm neither strong nor healthy, and my days are spent waiting to greet Death.

I clear my throat, an unpleasant hacking noise racks up, and I struggle to read the small numbers printed on my analog watch. I realize it's time to go already. I stand, which takes great effort and energy, due to my state of already said sickness. I take slow, steady strides to the door frame of the barren room, only the dull flickering of a florescent light graces the room. I stop at the door, and pick up a worn composition notebook I've read hundreds of times. I slip it beneath my arm, now lacking the muscle it used to, and continue on my way to the place I must go. Although I may not appear to be it, I'm only in my mid 30's, but I act like I'm a crotchety old man.

I walk on the icy tiled floors, white speckled with grey, one hand pressed against the drywall to support myself. I shuffle down the empty hallway. Though I'm the only one in the hallway this morning, they are in their rooms, a company of the television. They, like me are used to it, the intent, relatively constant murderous screaming. A person can get used to anything, given enough time.

I listen to the muffled cries in the distance and know who it is that is making the high pitched noises. The nurses in the hospital, and we exchange quick salutations and greetings with each other. I'm sure they wonder about me and the troubles I go through every day. I hear their quick, clipped gossip and chatter as I pass, their whispers not quite directed at me, but I still am able to listen in on the intent conversing.

"There he goes again," One says. "I hope it goes well today."

Minutes later, I reach the room, the door propped open, all the compacted spaces the same. A bed with plain white sheets, a television, and a night stand with a lamp. A closet is hidden behind a sliding mirror, encasing only two changes of the hospital gowns and distasteful slippers.

I knock on the door frame, not wanting to interrupt the nurses' work. They greet me with a, "Good morning," in honey coated voices as I enter. I take a moment to discuss the children and the schools and upcoming vacations. We talk above the crying for a while, they don't seem to notice: they have become numb to it, but then again, so have I.

Afterwards, I sit down in the chair that has come to be shaped like me. They're finishing up now; he's dressed, but is still crying. It always becomes quieter after they leave, I know. The excitement of the morning activities always upset him, and today is no exception. At last, the nurses walk out; both pat my arm gently and smile as they walk by. I sit for just a second and watch him, but he doesn't return my gaze. I understand, for he doesn't know who I am. I'm a stranger to him. Then, turning away I nod my head and pray silently for the strength I know I will need.

I smile at him, waiting for those emerald jewels to remember; but he still sits there mentally comforting himself with a distance glazed-over look. I sigh, letting out a long exhausted breath. I push the red-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of my nose, and I proceed to open the tattered notebook. I run a hand over the first, well-worn page; and grinned, like a personal joke with myself. There is always a moment right before I begin to read the story when my mind churns, and I wonder, "Will it happen today?" I don't know, for I never know beforehand, and it doesn't much matter. It's the possibility that keeps my strength and excitement going. And though you may call me a dreamer, or a fool, I believe anything is possible.

I realize that the odds, and science, are not working in my favor, nor were they ever. But science is not the total answer. This I know, this I have learned in my lifetime. That leaves me with the belief in the miracles, no matter how inexplicable or unbelievable, are real and can take place without regard to the natural order of things.

So once again, just as I do every day, I begin to read the notebook aloud, so that he can hear it, in hope that the miracle that has come to dominate my life will once again prevail.

And maybe, just maybe, it will.


	3. Chapter 2 Ghosts

Chapter 2- Ghosts [3rd P.P.O.V.]

It was early October 1946, and Alfred Jones watched the fading sun dance upon the horizon from the porch of his plantation-style home. The house was built in 1772, making it one of the oldest, as well as the largest, homes in New Bern. He liked to sit here evening, especially after working hard all day, and let his mind wander. It was how he relaxed, a routine he'd learned from; his now deceased, father. He loved to look at the trees and their reflections in the river, how they would sway gently in the ripples. North Carolina trees are beautiful in deep autumn: greens, yellows, red, oranges, and every shade in between their dazzling colors glowing with the sun.

Originally it was the main house on a working plantation, and he had bought it right after the war ended. Alfred had spent the last 11 months and a small fortune repairing it. The reporter from the Raleigh paper had done an article on it a few weeks back, and said it was one of the finest restorations he'd ever seen. At least the house was. The rest of the property was another story, and that was where spent most of the day.

The home sat on twelve acres adjacent to Brices Creek, and he'd worked on the wooden fence that lined the other three sides of the property, checking for dry rot or termites, replacing posts where he had to. He still had more work to do on the west side, and as he'd put the tools away earlier he'd made a mental note to call and have some more timber delivered. He's gone into the house, drunk a glass of sweet tea, and then showered, the water washing away dirt and fatigue. Afterwards, he combed his hair back; then put on some faded jeans, a plain, white tee-shirt, and an old bomber jacket poured himself another glass of tea and gone to the porch, where he sat every day at this time.

He reached for his guitar that was propped up against the side of the clean white home, remembering his father as he did so, thinking how much he missed him. Alfred strummed once, adjusted the tension on two strings, and then plucked out a soft, quiet melody. He hummed first, and then began to sing as the night came down around him like a chilly quilted blanket stitched with the sights and sounds of autumn.

It was a little after seven when he stopped and settled back into his rocking chair. By habit, he looked upwards and saw Orion, the Big Dipper, and the Pole Star, twinkling above him, engrossed in the blues and purples hues of the late sky. He started to run the numbers in his head, and then stopped. He knew he had spent almost his entire fortune on the house and would have to find a job again soon, but he pushed the thought away and decided to enjoy the remaining months of restoration without worrying about it.

It would work out for him, he knew: it always did.

A Brown and white tabby laced itself around Alfred's legs and nuzzled his shin, before jumping up to curl in his lap. "Hey Americat, how're you going?" He asked the fluff that sat on his lap, leaving tendrils of brown furs from the 'mane' that accented its neck. He rubbed the cat's stomach, getting a soft, content purring from it, soft round eyes peering upwards. Alfred always thought his cat was the perfect representation of America, gaining it the title, "Americat. It was hardly a cat though, for some odd reason, it believed it was a dog getting itself into all kinds of trouble.

Alfred F. Jones was 31 now, not fresh to the world, not old enough to be considered, 'old'; but old enough to be lonely. He hadn't dated since he had been back here, hadn't met anyone who remotely interesting him since then. It was his own fault, he knew. Here was something that kept a distance between him and any woman, or man who started to get close, something he wasn't sure he would change even if he tried. Something, in the moments before a deep, restless, dreamless slumber, he wondered if he was destined to be alone forever.

The evening passed, staying a pleasantly dry and warm. Alfred listened to the crickets and the rustling leaves, thinking that the sound of nature was more real, and aroused more emotion than things like cars and planes. Natural things gave back more than they took, and their sounds always brought him back to the way man was supposed to be. There were times during the war, especially after a major engagement, when he had often thought about these simple sounds. "It'll keep you from going crazy," his father had told him the day he'd shipped out. "It's God's music and it'll take you home."

He finished his tea sweet tea and turned inside for a moment. He paged through his book shelf, and fingered over an old, tattered spine of a book. He stopped in the door frame on his way out and fumbled around with the porch light, turning it on. After sitting down in the chair once again outside, he looked down at the book. The cover was torn, and the pages were stained with mud and water. It was 'Leaves of Grass' by Walk Whitman, and he had carried it with him throughout the war. A sad, sorrowful smile graced his features, dreadful memories returning for a moment.

He let the book open randomly and read the words aloud in front of him:

"This is thy hour, 0 Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from hooks, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the theme,

Thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death and the stars."

For some reason Whitman always reminded him of New Bern, and he was glad he'd come back. Though he'd been away for fourteen years, this was home and he knew a lot of people here, most of them from his youth. It wasn't surprising.

Like so many southern towns, the people who lived here never changed, they just grew a bit older.

His closest friend these days was Kiku Honda, a 31 year old Japanese man who lived down the road. They had met a couple of weeks after Alfred bought the house, when Kiku had shown up with some homemade bento boxes and sake. The two had spent their first evening together getting drunk and telling stories (Though Kiku was a very solemn, articulate drunk). Kiku showed up regularly, a couple nights a week, usually around eight. With four children in the house, he needed to get out now and then, and Alfred couldn't blame him. Commonly, Kiku would come to sit with Alfred on the porch, pointing out stars and planets to him in the nighttime scape.

Alfred had come to regard Kiku as family. There really wasn't anyone else, at least not since his father died last year. He was an only child and his mother had died on influenza when he was two. And though he had wanted to at one time, he had never married.

But he had been in love once that he knew. Once and only once, a long time ago. It had changed him forever. Perfect love did that to a person, and this had been perfect. Coastal clouds slowly began to roll across the evening sky, turning silver with the reflection of the moon. As they thickened, he leaned his head back against the rocking chair. His legs moved automatically, keeping a steady rhythm, and he felt his mind drifting back to a warm evening like this fourteen years ago.

It was just after graduation 1932, the opening night of the Neuse River Festival. The town was out in full, enjoying the barbecues and games of chance. It was humid that night—for some reason he remembered that clearly. He arrived alone, and as he strolled through the crowd, looking for friends, he saw Matthew and Gilbert, two people he'd grown up with; talking to a young man he's never seen before.

The other was handsome at the least; you could even say pretty, he remembered thinking. When he finally joined them, he looked his was with a pair of vibrant emerald eyes, framed by eyebrows that stared just as intently. They weren't exactly ugly, just very prominent. "Hello," He greeted Alfred curtly, a British accent lacing his voice, and offered a hand. "Matthew had mentioned you earlier, briefly, might I add," A smirk painted his thin, moist lips, a joke dancing in the captivating jade irises.

An ordinary beginning, something that would have been forgotten, had it been anyone but him. But as he shook the other's hand, and met those striking emerald eyes, he knew before he'd taken his next breath that he was the one he could spend the rest of his life looking for but never find again. The man seemed that good, that perfect.

Alfred watched as Arthur (He had finally been informed of a name), was dragged away by two young men, one on each side of him. He scowled at Antonio and Lovino as they forced Arthur onto the Ferris wheel. Antonio sat, an arm around Arthur, Lovino in the cart below, laughing as he pretended to push Gilbert out of the seat as he jumped onto the rickety leather.

A burning flame of jealousy roused inside of him, the rich ocean-colored eyes plotting. He watched as the cart holding Antonio and Arthur came rolling along again toward the platform where they would board, and while it was still circulating, he jumped up onto the ledge of the seat planting onto the space between the two.

"'Ey Tonio~" He ginned, "Mind if I join yas?" The cart rocked, shifting and groaning uncomfortably when the conductor of the Ferris wheel halted the ride.

"Alfred you jackass, what the hell are you doing? Mein Gott!" A familiar face glared up at him. "You're not allowed to do that shit on this! You have to get off that cart, arschgesicht…" Ludwig yelled up to the blonde.

"Don't worry 'bout it Luddy!" He shot a thumbs-up and cracked a cheeky smirk down to him. He licked his dry lips for a second, before launching himself off the seat, the rusted metal shaking violently. His hands gripped onto a metal bar, holding him at least 40 feet in the air.

"Bloody wanker!" Arthur cried out gripping onto Antonio. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?" He exclaimed, clearly upset and making wild gestures toward the other, "Trying to get us killed you bollock-for-brains?" He snarled as the ride continued wobbling.

Alfred frowned at this comment from where he was hanging from, the bar of the Ferris wheel's structure. "C'mon… You're not dead, are you?" He didn't wait for a response, "Of course not," He gave another cocky, lopsided grin toward the attractive Englishman. "Well? Will you, or will you not go out on a date with me?" He struggled to talk, most of his strength used for hanging from the structure. He managed a deterred, smile-like grimace, as he dangled from a dangerous height.

Arthur forced a choked laugh, "Whut?" He cried out, his British accent accountant for. "What the bloody hell are you trying to prove you arse face?"

"Well?" Alfred pursed the other, trying to provoke an answer.

"I only met you today!" Arthur insisted, rosy blush dusting his features.

"Mi amigo, if he doesn't want to go out with you, then leave him alone!" Antonio frowned, attempting to shoo Alfred.

Alfred should hear the crowd below that was forming. "Get down Alfred before you kill yourself!" Ludwig exclaimed, trying to get everyone away from the Ferris wheel. "Seriously, don't do something idiotic-" He was cut off by screams from around him.

"I-I think my hand is slipping…" He cried out, his right hand releasing the bar. A secretive wink was thrown down Ludwig's way.

"Ah! A-Alright you bastard! One date…" He screamed, "Now stop this nonsense!" He motioned Ludwig to keep the wheel moving to bring them down.

"Wait!" He called down to Ludwig, "But do you want to?" The other retaliated, still hanging from one hand. He gave a grunt from the back of his throat, struggling to keep a firm grip on the structure.

"Yes," Arthur replied panicking, "YES I WANT TO!" He screeched, as the other loosened his grip even more.

"Promise?" Alfred teased, a Cheshire grin painted across his features.

"Yes! Yes I promise!" The Britain yelled franticly, "Please! I want to go out with you!"

"Alright, if you really want to!" He chuckled, placing a firm two handed grip on the bar once again. Alfred glanced down at Ludwig, who now had his childhood friend and boyfriend Feliciano wrapped around his waist, and signaled him to get him down. Just as the carts began circulating again, Arthur grabbed hold of the belt loops of Alfred's pants, and as soon as he tried to protest to his dismay, he pulled them down to bunch around his ankles. "Gee, thanks," Alfred rolled his eyes and refrained from blushing as he was brought toward the ground.

Antonio and Arthur were in hysterics, "You are quite welcome," Arthur replied, a smug look planted on his face, trying to stare directly at the other's crotch (And that was considerably hard, seeing as the other's pelvic bone was parallel to his face).

* * *

_A/N: Will post more later, computer is lagging, so I have to upload little parts at a time (: This is only part of chapter 2 ;D_


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